


Phlegethon

by danpuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Cheating, First Time, Horny Teenagers, Hypocrisy, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Obsession, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Somnophilia, Teacher-Student Relationship, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danpuff/pseuds/danpuff
Summary: Severus makes the same mistake twice (and he's definitely going to hell for it).
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 33
Kudos: 131
Collections: Emergency Thirst Aid Station





	1. Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> The Phlegethon is a river of fire in the Underworld. It is claimed that, if drank, it can heal wounds while causing indescribable pain.
> 
> _"More dreadful things have I seen, which Phlegethon bids imprisoned sinners suffer, compassing them about with his stream of fire; what punishment waits for me, and what place, I know"_  
>  -Seneca the Younger

It is early morning, early August, and sunlight is streaming through the windows of Number 4 Privet Drive. It shines on the blonde woman fixing breakfast, and the mustached man watching the news, and the portly teenager still fast asleep. 

It illuminates the smallest bedroom, with books and clothes strewn across the floor. The light is unforgiving on the man’s harsh face as he snarls. It is radiant on a young boy’s flushed face. Gleaming in emerald eyes. And never touching the darkness of the black. 

The sunlight is soft and warm on the rumpled bed as a small body is tossed upon it. As baggy pajamas are tugged off of skinny legs. As the black-clad man falls to his knees, mouthing at heavy balls. The boy squirms, fisting the bedclothes beneath him.

“What are you doing?” the boy gasps.

“Conforming to the masses -” the harsh voice belies the sensual stoke of tongue up shaft, “Bowing down. Catering to your whims. In service to the Chosen One.” 

“Don’t-” the boy snaps, but the sound is choked off as the man swallows him to the root. “Oh God. Oh _God_. Don’t - don’t _stop_.” 

Through the wall, a loud snore barely covers the sound of a low moan. The boy’s eyes stare at the wall in horror, but the man does not stop his work, and the boy presses his arm into his mouth to stifle his cries. Only the man hears them. And only he sees the flush of chest and neck and cheeks. Only he feels the flexing muscles as he holds the boy down. Only he can taste the salt of his skin, and of his release when it comes, swallowing all he is given. 

No one is watching or listening as the man crawls over the panting boy. No one to see him braced on one arm, free hand working at trousers. But green eyes flick open to watch pale hand stroke thick cock. Only he hears the ragged breath, or feels it hot against his face. He holds his hands over his chest, and pulls up his shirt just in time for the man to come on his flat stomach. 

For a long moment they breathe the same air, and stare at the same mess. And they do not speak as they part, and do not meet eyes as they pack the boy’s trunk. And they do not touch, even as they share a Portkey away from Privet Drive.

* * *

Severus Snape has never touched a student before Harry Potter. It would not, could not be anyone else. Severus is a professor, a potions master, a spy - control is his life’s work. But Potter is chaos - a force of nature that calls to everything savage and carnal inside of him.

Potter is a fire, burning him up - rage and shame and violence boiling within.

* * *

There is no vibrant star to gaze at them next, only the glow of the hearth illuminating the Black family library. Illuminating the small boy laying out on the rug. Verdant eyes flit about the room, never settling on the man in the armchair. Elegant fingers flipping the pages of a book. Nervous fingers drumming up and down ribs. Tongue sliding across thin lips. Teeth worrying at full pink ones. The rustle of robes as the man shifts. Rustle of pajamas as sweaty hand slips inside. 

Stillness from the man, watching the motion of the boy. 

The book is dropped into the armchair as the man moves to kneel over the boy. Pajamas around ankles, open robes shielding them from view. Cock, heavy and hot, settles over the other; silken skin sliding, drawing sharp breath from both. 

The man clamps a hand over the boy’s open mouth, holding in every whine and moan. He presses his mouth over the throat where they form. The boy clutches at him desperately, arms and legs wound around him, and he bites into the palm when he comes. And in the slickness, the man glides more easily, but it’s so messy and crude and erotic that he follows soon after, biting his knuckles. Glaring down into green flames.

* * *

Boiling, yes; hotter still, the year before, spying the boy’s innermost desires. Cedric, then Bill, Oliver, Krum, McLaggen, Shackelbolt. Then Severus himself. And though he mocked the child for every last one, he felt that boiling within begin to bubble and foam with _want_.

* * *

The man moves through the shadows with practiced ease, into the boy’s bedroom well past midnight. The boy is groaning, writhing beneath the sheets when he enters. The boy scrambles up at the sound, and stares as the man crosses the room. Stares at the twitch of a wand that brings candles to life. Swallows when the man pulls back the sheets. And the man stares at bare legs, full cock, slick fingers. And he swallows, too. 

In the candlelight, he grabs an ankle, pulls the small body to the edge of the bed, drapes legs over shoulders. Slides two fingers inside, exploring slick, hot walls the boy has already stretched for him. Pushes cock through the guarding muscles too hard, too fast, too eager to explore uncharted territory. The boy, a virgin, stills - brows furrowed, lips tight, breathing hard through his pain. 

But the pain fades, and when it does he grabs a pillow, holds it over his face to smother his helpless cries. The man’s fingers dig into slender hips, dragging the boy onto his cock, over and over and over. Black eyes are fierce as they bore down at the youthful body beneath him - young and toned and beautiful and his, only his. 

He cannot last long with these thoughts. Should not when, in his madness, he wants to rip that pillow away, and let the boy’s voice call the whole house into this room. He will face any repercussion, if only they know he has staked his claim. So they know just who has sullied their perfect little saint.

So he grabs the boy’s cock instead; tugs once, twice, and the boy is spilling beautifully into his hand. And he follows soon after, pressing in as deeply as he can. He wants to stain him; ruin him for anyone else. 

The boy has tears on his face when the man pulls away the pillow. Green eyes glare at the probing mind, pushes him away when the man leans in. But the man grabs his wrists and holds them still so that he might softly kiss trembling lips. Stifles his laughter. Ignores the ache in his chest.

Because the boy has had his cock sucked and his arse fucked, but he’s never been kissed.

* * *

Harry Potter’s eyes spark like fireworks. And he flirts like the flickering of a candle. His embrace is a warm hearth. His laughter a bonfire. 

He is as destructive and consuming as fiendfyre.

As vibrant and essential as the sun.

His touch burns - damaging, purifying. 

And he melts every last restraint Severus Snape ever had.


	2. Moonlight

It is late at night, late December, and moonlight shines on the Burrow. It glows on the gnomes cackling, sneaking back into the garden. It pours through the windows, over Christmas tree and gifts. It touches nine sleeping redheads and a raven-haired boy curled up by the window. 

Green eyes fall on the mischievous gnomes, but they do not see. The boy is lost in memories of his shadow-clad lover. Of hands and knees in the attic, beneath the beady eyes of a hippogriff. Of a soft touch in his hair, and velvet words guiding him through fellatio. Of wet skin sliding against his in a claw-foot tub.

Of the walls of Hogwarts, with their eyes and ears, spying and never telling as Harry is pressed against them. Or bent over a desk. Or against shelves in the potions storeroom. They do not see him in the grass behind Greenhouse Number Three. Or against a tree in the Forbidden Forest. Or the stone bench in the rose garden. 

And he thinks of an impassive face, belied by the churning black venom of his glare, and he chuckles softly to himself.

* * *

Harry is eternal Gubraithian flames; his heat never dying. And he always wants more, and Severus gives and gives. But more is not enough when he’s smiling at Finch-Fletchley in class. Or meeting Wood in Hogsmeade. Or touching McLaggen’s chest in the corridors. 

And Severus knows what Harry’s dreamed of Bill Weasley. And knows the eldest will be at the Burrow for Christmas. He knows Harry will look. And flirt. And touch. 

And the boiling in his gut is poison. And that poison is leaking into his veins. And the sickness of it dampens the heat of his wrath.

* * *

It is late at night, late December, and moonlight glows palely over Malfoy Manor. It offers a ghostly elegance to prancing white peacocks. It lights the foyer where a house elf scrubs white marble floors. It is rejected from the master suite, does not disturb the home’s master and mistress. The light glares accusingly on their guest’s empty bed. It is a spotlight on another bed, softly illuminating the heir’s platinum hair and porcelain skin.

The boy is lovely. Sharp cheekbones, shapely lips - and beneath the sheets his body is long and lithe and smooth. He could be a statue here in his stillness. Carved to perfection, built for admiration. As lovely and aloof as the moonlight that smiles upon him. 

The man in the shadows watches for a time, drinking in the lines of him, the color of him, as he does not dare during the day. Asleep the boy is an angel, harmless and sweet. Awake he is a petulant child in over his head, asking for things he does not understand. 

Things the man should not give him, but will. 

The boy sleeps soundly as the man pulls bedclothes aside. As knees press to mattress. As hand lifts nightshirt, and cool fingers trail bare flesh. Fingers curling around limp cock. Patient in his watching, in his touching. It is a game to see how far he can go before the boy wakes. 

He makes it through soft fondling, tempting cock to fullness. He makes it through nudging pale thighs apart. The boy stirs, but does not wake, as slick finger slips inside. It is the introduction of a second that startles him awake. Silver-gray eyes are magnetic, pulling at lust. 

Tongue wetting pink lips. “Professor? What are you doing?” 

“What you want." The voice is low and rough. “Don’t you always get what you want?”

The boy removes his nightshirt, lets it slide to the floor. Two fingers curl inside of the boy as knuckles trail up his ribs. Press in deeper as thumb flicks over pert nipple. The boy shudders, presses down on invading digits. 

“Please…please,” the boy whispers. He has been begging for weeks with his glances and touches and suggestions. 

So the man settles between welcoming legs. He holds his own nightshirt between his teeth, out of the way. And if he was careless with another boy out of eagerness, he is now intentionally cruel as he breaches virgin territory. 

And while another boy was silent in his pain, this boy cries out sharply. 

And the man pauses, stares down at pink face and trembling lips, and forces the other boy from his mind. He stares down into the gray until it is all he sees, and until he sees the color glazed with pleasure. Until the whimpering stops, and there is only his quiet breathing, and a whispered, “ _Please_ ,” and a soundless cry as he comes. 

The man slips free, flips the boy onto his belly. Slides one hand down the spine, admiring flawless alabaster. Detesting it. Cupping the roundness of his cheeks as the boy looks over his shoulder at him. Fingers part cheeks, exposing used hole to frigid air. Slips thumb inside. The man releases his shirt from his teeth to mock, “Pure-blooded prince despoiled by a half-blood. What would your father say?”

The boy means to answer, but he loses the words as the man presses into him. Grabs slim hips, and hopes they bruise; holds him still as he uses him, losing himself in the feel of velvet heat. Relishing the possession, the stolen innocence. Another young body to fill, and mold, and claim for his own. 

When he is done, there are tears on the boy’s pillow. And in his guilt he pulls the boy into his arms, kisses his temple, and lays with him until he falls back asleep. 

It isn’t fair to punish one boy for the sins of another.

* * *

Draco knows what Severus does with Harry. Confesses this with subtle hints of purity and youth. And it sounds like a threat, at the start. But Draco likes to stand close. Likes to brush him with arm or hand. And learns it is an offer. 

A tempting offer. 

Draco is refined where Harry is raw. Is cool and distant, to Harry’s warmth. He is sophistication to Harry’s wildness. 

He is fair hair, unblemished skin.

Untouched.

Body as pure as his blood.

Until Severus lays hands on him, that is.

* * *

Draco arrives fifteen minutes early to the first lesson after holidays. Lips smirk, but eyes betray sadness and confusion and hope. Hope fulfilled when Severus pushes him into the ingredients cupboard to fuck him against the shelves.

This boy is quiet in his pleasure, all sighs and gasps and choked off breath. And it is music, the whispered “ _Fuck,_ ” at the end. He trembles in Severus’s arms when he is set back on his feet. And he stumbles to his seat barely a minute before the other students pour in.

Harry saunters in last, five minutes late, and when Severus gives him detention, the corners of his mouth twitch like he wants to smile. And Severus is breathless. And he holds him after class to fuck him against the door before his third years arrive. 

It’s madness.

* * *

Madness to have them in his class. Madness to dock points from a boy whose scratches he wears on his back. Madness to give them to a boy he’s had panting and sweating in his arms.

Madness to deliver grades to faces he’s seen twisted in pleasure.

Madness to see them in their shirts and ties and robes and think about what hides beneath. To think about tracing Harry’s scars with his tongue. And the unmarred planes of Draco’s flesh. And the callouses of Harry’s fingers stroking him. And the smoothness of Draco. 

Madness to have two beautiful boys in his class, when he’s had them in his bed. 

Madness that he wants them both, and has them both.

* * *

Draco finds him before detention, to suck him off beneath the desk. And when Harry arrives ten minutes later, Severus needs time. 

Harry obeys his orders to bend over the desk, spreads his legs wide, holds his cheeks apart, and sobs helplessly against the wood as Severus opens him up with fingers and tongue. And when Severus is quite recovered, he instructs Harry to mount him. And he does. He clutches Severus’s shoulders and fucks himself relentlessly, head falling back as he breathes out, “ _Severus._ ”

Gray eyes peer out from the door of the cupboard. Black eyes glare right into them. And as Severus holds this gaze, he holds Harry steady and pumps up into him. And he’s glad Harry screams, and he’s glad Draco can hear. 

But gray eyes never close, never even blink. It is Severus who turns away, burying his face in wild black hair, inhaling the scent of him.

* * *

Rumors abound of Harry Potter snogging and shagging an array of classmates. Colin Creevey, in the library. Neville Longbottom, in their dorms. Cormac McLaggen, on the Quidditch pitch. 

Harry does not like attention, but he does not dispel these rumors. He delights in the way Severus manhandles him against the nearest surface. He lights up at being held down and taken - basks in Severus’s loss of control. He does not even complain when Severus delves into his mind as he delves into his body. 

Harry has winked, and smiled, and hinted. Brushes of skin that might be innocent, or might be flirtation. But he has never kissed another. Or touched another. There is only Severus - in his mind, in his body.

In his heart.

* * *

And Severus wants to tell him - wants to put words to the chaos inside of him. But it is too messy, too crude, too boundless - and words are too small, too confining, too inadequate. So Severus kisses him instead.


	3. Darkness

A man in black glides unseen in the darkness. He moves by feel, by sound, by knowledge. Two empty beds, three occupied. A Silencing Charm and drawn curtains ensure privacy as he joins a flaxen-haired boy. Delicate wrists are bound with a green-and-silver tie, bound to the bed as the man kneels over him. There is only the feel of black hair tickling flesh, and hot tongue tracing collarbone. Teeth scraping down ribs. Wet kiss to navel. Hooked nose trails teasingly up eager cock. Lips brush leaking head. Tongue probing the slit. 

“ _God, please, please,_ ” the boy begs quietly. 

The man ignores this, mouthing his way down and down and down. Shoves knees to chest, whispers spell against heated flesh, _licks_ his way between pert cheeks. The boy’s breath catches in his throat. And releases. “ _Oh, oh, oh._ ” 

Two other boys sleep undisturbed. They are not privy to the weak whimpering of their friend as tongue explores, inside and out. The scrape of nails on thighs. Man’s hand encircling prick, stroking. Man’s mouth nipping and soothing pink nipples. Man’s tongue lapping away the mess the boy makes. 

They do not see - no one sees - the man crawling up, fingers in fair hair, feeding his cock into the boy’s lax mouth. They do not hear their friend choking or coughing or gasping, or their professor’s guttural groan as he spills himself down unpracticed throat.

* * *

It is foolish, very foolish, to do as he does. A fool for extra lessons, for detentions, for meetings in his office. More foolish still to enter dorms over Easter. 

Such easy access to such pliable bodies. 

Such desirable boys desiring him.

Severus knows himself for a fool. A fool to go to Draco in the night, with Crabbe and Goyle slumbering nearby. A fool to have touched Draco to begin with. A fool to have fallen apart so easily beneath Harry Potter’s yearning. 

He hates Draco. 

He hates Harry. 

But most of all, he hates himself.

* * *

In May he divides his students into pairs. It amuses him to pair Granger with Goyle, and Longbottom with Crabbe, and Weasley with Parkinson. He tells himself he is amused by pairing Potter with Malfoy.

Tells himself it is not pleasure to watch his lovers glare and bicker. That it is not pleasure to admire their beauty side by side. 

Better still to know that beneath robes and trousers, his pretty boys wear silk panties he bought on a whim. Gold for his Gryffindor, silver for his Slytherin. He does not know how they look, but knows they have obeyed. And he intends to examine them both at length. Separately. 

For now he instructs his class to brew Veritaserum. A dangerous brew for a class full secrets. 

Gray eyes narrow when green dart away. Severus quirks a brow until the child huffs and resumes dicing. Draco shoots annoyed glances at Harry who ignores him. A noble attempt until Draco mutters “ _Slut._ ” Severus only dares to shoot him a look of warning, but Harry is retorting “ _Ponce_.” And they are too busy glaring and bickering and flicking ingredients to see their cauldron melting. Not until essence of _lies_ is spilling across the floor. 

Green and gray are startled as they dart up black. 

“Potter. Malfoy. Detention.”

* * *

That night, Severus has Harry in his rooms, and is tender when he takes him, and feeds him treacle tart after. And when it is late, and Harry must leave, Severus regrets watching him go. 

The next, Draco lays naked on the floor, watching morosely as Severus clothes himself. “Why don’t you love _me_?” 

Severus stills. “I don’t love anyone.”

Draco says nothing. The doubtful gray says enough.

* * *

For Saturday detention, Severus leads his two lovers across the grounds as the sun sets. Harry watches the sky change colors, and the sinking sun reflects radiantly in emerald. And it is Harry’s bitten back smile that tells Severus he has been staring. He barks out his orders. Watches them obey. 

Indulgent, really, to have them together. 

Harry’s every movement lights up the night, the spark of him never diminished, even in the dark. 

And Draco is ethereal in the starlight, more portrait than person. Too beautiful to be real, though Severus knows that he is. Has touched and tasted him enough to know.

His lovers are silent as they gather night-blooming blossoms. For potions, he says; for beauty, he does not. 

White moonflowers cradled in Draco’s elegant hands.

Chocolate daisies twirled between Harry’s fingers. 

He has the mad thought that he might thank Longbottom for planting them.

“Potter,” he hisses, snatching Harry’s wrist. Harry’s breath catches. Thumb strokes racing pulse. Draco stills behind them. “You need a softer touch than that.” 

“Show me,” Harry mouths, then glances nervously to where Draco stands.

Severus remembers pressing Harry into a patch of grass nearby. He lets Harry go. Dreadful idea for them to serve together, when he cannot touch them. And he wants to very much. Draco, with evening primrose. Harry, with night phlox. His alluring boys, decorated with flowers. Flowers crushed beneath animal thrusts. 

Draco would not mind watching, but Harry would never be amenable. Not to watching Severus take Draco. Or to kissing Draco himself. Or touching him. His two boys in bed, _wrapped around each other. Lip to lip. Chest to chest. Cock to cock. Groping hands. Fingers pressing, exploring, stretching the other._

A lurch in his gut. As appalling as it is arousing. For they are his, and no one else’s. Not even each other’s. 

“How much longer, Professor?” Draco whines.

Severus snaps out of it.

“Until I’m done with you.”

* * *

Lust sneaking, unannounced, from Harry’s fantasies into his. Lust racing ahead. Lust spinning, and dancing, and dragging him along. Lust on a rampage, crashing into walls. 

Bound to be caught.

* * *

At the dawn of June, Harry shows Severus a room on the seventh floor. For them it is a bathhouse. Stone walls. Fragrant flowers. Candles. Trays of fruit. A pool-sized tub. 

Severus watches for a time, snacking on grapes as Harry floats on his back amid white foam and red rose petals. Strawberries while Harry dives and splashes. Smiling around a cherry as Harry’s laughter rings out. Sucks the juice from his fingers as Harry beckons him forward. 

They swim. And chase. And when Severus catches his speedy athlete, he bends him over the edge. One arm draped on the stone. Their fingers interlaced at Harry’s chest. Free hand guiding himself, sliding inside. 

“Harry,” he breathes into the boy’s ear. And it sounds like more of a confession than he means it to. But Harry squeezes his fingers. Turns to capture his lips. Kisses him deeply until a shift of the hips drags a sharp breath from him. “Severus,” a whisper against lips. 

He tries to break the spell, pressing Harry’s head down to the stone. Holds him steady as he fucks into him hard. Punishing. Tries to pull the other to mind. Tries to separate himself from the scorching flames in his hands. Reaches for the cool stone of Draco Malfoy, and the dream shatters when Harry wails beneath him. 

Because Harry loves it; is consumed by it.

Just as Severus is consumed by him.

* * *

After, he cannot pull away. He lays on the bench with Harry in his arms, draped in fluffy towels. The boy nuzzles against his neck. Sweet kiss to jaw. He props himself up on Severus’s chest and peers down at him.

Severus tries not to look, but cannot help himself. The green is as soft and warm as the candlelight around them.

And it feels like drowning in flames.

* * *

On the last night of term, Draco enters his rooms. From the bed, Severus watches him strip, and remembers Draco asking why he did not love him. 

Severus thinks about lies, and thinks about secrets.

And thinks about truth.

Truth he cannot grasp. 

Truth circles his chest, searching for entry. And Severus thinks about true desire, and how he wishes he did not stir at the sight of Draco’s nude body. And when Draco approaches, when he leans in, Severus turns his face to kiss neck instead. He pulls Draco to bed, beneath him, and wishes he did not enjoy his supple form.

Draco reaches up to touch his face, so Severus catches fingers in his mouth. Draco arches up into him. Hand, up thigh, towards eager sex. Hands on his back, pulling him closer.

But there is a rustle of cloth. Severus turns to the sound, and Draco’s gaze follows his. Cloak on the floor. Ratty trainers. Baggy trousers. Red jumper. A small boy standing tall before them.

The green boring into them is unreadable.


End file.
